Catapult
by Blinguist
Summary: Abbie Mills has her chance to prove that Ichabod Crane isn't the only one who can travel through time.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Sleepy Hollow or any of its characters. Yes, I ship Ichabbie. I tried to be all adult about it and _NOT_ hope that the two leads would eventually go all romantic, but I gave up two episodes into the season. That being said, I'm all in even if Abbie and Ichabod only remain best buds. I expect this story to only be a few chapters long and it's intended to simply capture a brief moment vs. chronicling a longer span of time. I envision it taking place several years after Abbie and Ichabod first met and Katrina is out of the picture. Not going to attempt to address the circumstances that would allow them the freedom to pursue a relationship in this fic. Regardless of the 'why' behind a separation between Ichabod and Katrina (amicable, acrimonious, or tragic) I think it would still take time for Ichabbie to happen. In my head, the separation is an honorable one from Ichabod's standpoint. Otherwise it would be hard for me not to regard him as a jerk and I want him to retain his status as a "good guy."

"Stop draggin' your feet, Crane," Abbie berated.

Under normal circumstances, Ichabod would have queried her word choice, but these circumstances were far from normal. The unrelenting sounds that emanated from virtually every direction in the amusement park made it difficult for him to concentrate. Ichabod wondered to himself at what point society had grown so averse to peace and quiet. He was perpetually confounded by the present generation's demand for incessant stimulation.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, where did you say we were taking me?" he inquired as he lagged several steps behind her.

"To the Bungee Rocket," she answered with a glint in her eye that was a bit too maniacal to mitigate his growing anxiety.

"Ah! Two more entries to add to the growing list of words that completely baffle me." Ichabod prodded for clarification by asking, "The '_what, what_,' now?"

"It's called a Bungee Rocket. And rather than waste time explaining what it is—if you just keep it moving –you will see for yourself soon enough."

The words had barely left Abbie's mouth when Ichabod was stunned into immobility by the sight of a large, circular object shooting, as it seemed, from the tops of the trees. However, this jolting vision was not to be outdone by the murderous cries of the unfortunate occupants strapped within the hollow, metal orb. He marveled as it ascended to the sky at an unimaginable rate of speed and watched in horror as it rapidly shot back towards the earth.

Abbie twirled to face her companion and quietly scrutinized the myriad expressions on Ichabod's face. His cerulean eyes grew wide as saucers and his lips struggled to form words. She fought to suppress a burst of laughter as a look of sheer confusion instantly overtook his visage when the object reappeared in the sky.

"See? Bungee Rocket," Abbie playfully offered.

"Lieutenant, would I be correct in assuming you intend to lure me into…THAT!" he exclaimed, pointing his slender finger at the empty patch of sky from which the orb had once again disappeared.

"Well, I wouldn't use the term _lure_, but yes, that's the idea."

It may have been called a Bungee Rocket—whatever that meant—but Ichabod likened it to a huge catapult which employed humans as ammunition in exchange of massive, fortress-penetrating boulders. Although it appeared, thankfully, that these occupants were spared the fatal indignity of actually being hurled from the device.

In a tone dripping with exasperation, Ichabod asked, "And what, pray tell, is the purpose of such a contraption, Miss Mills?"

"To blow off steam. To have fun. It's exciting!"

"Oh, well, I see. I have erroneously mistaken it for an instrument of torture," he sardonically countered.

Shaking his head in derision, he continued, "Exciting, indeed! Do you mean to tell me that _our_ lives don't already hold enough excitement?"

"Not today. C'mon…let's goooooo."

Abbie closed the gap between them and, fighting against Ichabod's reluctance, violently tugged at the crook of his arm in an effort to set his lean frame in motion. His body did budge, but not entirely due to Abbie's power. She was too diminutive to mobilize him with physical force alone, but when his curiosity was piqued, that was an altogether different story. And even though he would never admit it to her, especially after his rant, he _was_ curious. Besides, how could he be completely unwilling to attempt something that his comrade in arms was wholeheartedly anxious to undertake?

Abbie locked her arm around Ichabod's and the two walked side by side. She looked up at his face as he stared forward and couldn't help but notice his knitted brow.

"Enough with the cranky face," she demanded, extending her tiny fingers to massage his forehead. "You won't regret this. It will be good for you."

She was teasing him now. He didn't mind.

Ichabod shot her one of his signature sideways glances and mumbled, "I highly doubt it."

The pair walked along in silence and Abbie was thankful for the closeness between them. Not only because of the comfort that his body heat provided on the unseasonably chilly late summer afternoon, but mainly because they could walk along arm-in-arm without giving it a second thought. They no longer instinctively recoiled when one would invade the other's personal space, whether unintentionally or, more often than not, intentionally. They were best friends and Abbie never truly had one before.

They reached the end of the short queue of people patiently awaiting their turn on the thrill ride. They untangled their arms and Ichabod clasped his hands behind his back and, as always, stood straight and tall. Ichabod pivoted slightly in Abbie's direction and broke the silence.

"You know, when I said I was looking forward to you expanding my horizons, I was not anticipating that it would be vertically."

Abbie let out a guffaw that brought an impish grin to Ichabod's lips. He relished in his ability to genuinely amuse his partner because he understood that too much of her life had been devoid of laughter. Just as quickly as the moment of levity arose between them, it came to a sudden halt with Abbie grimacing in pain and covering her ear.

"Ow!" she cried.

Ichabod placed his palm lightly on Abbie's back and with no small amount of concern in his voice, he asked, "Lieutenant? What is the matter?"

"It's nothing, just a little pain. Probably the start of an earache. I had a ton of them as a kid."

"Is it wise to continue here? We should get you to a physician so you may be properly examined."

"No, no, no," she retorted, wagging her index finger. "You're not getting out of this so easily. I'll be ok."

Ichabod took the back of his hand and pressed it firmly against Abbie's forehead. "Just as I suspected."

"Oh, stop it," she said, swatting his hand away like a meddlesome fly.

"You unmistakably have a fever. Albeit, a slight one, but a fever nonetheless."

"I feel just fine."

"It should not be ignored," he commanded with all the authority his rank as captain afforded.

"It's a low-grade fever, at best! It's not like I'm at death's door."

Like so many times before when the two of them had gone head-to-head in disagreements, Ichabod recognized when it was time to hold his tongue. They didn't have the luxury of privacy that the cabin or her apartment provided and he thought better of engaging her in a quarrel in a public setting. He also knew too well that there was no amount of cajoling that would steer Abigail Mills off her course when her mind was set like flint. He raised his hands in submission but gave her a glare that let her know he was not satisfied with her decision to ignore the signals her body was giving her.

The two stood in silence for a few moments until Abbie blithely nudged her shoulder into his arm. He gazed down upon her Lilliputian form and although the pink hued lips that peeked through his facial hair refused to form a smile, she could see that his eyes had considerably softened.

"Promise me you won't be grumpy for the rest of the day," she sweetly intoned; her voice at a slightly higher register in an effort to extend an olive branch.

"I promise not to be a grump, if you promise to see a doctor in the morning if your fever has not broken."

"You've got yourself a deal."

"And, Lieutenant, I _will_ be checking to see if your temperature is back to normal."

Abbie saw that they were now at the front of the line and could make their way onto the ride. She grabbed Ichabod by the hand and pulled him in the direction of the awaiting Bungee Rocket.

Looking back at him, she offered, "I'm counting on it, Crane," before tenderly biting her bottom lip.

Ichabod did not know if her action was intentionally suggestive, but he read it as nothing less than flirtation. He couldn't ignore the flutter of butterflies that were making their circuit around his stomach and knew (at that very moment at least) that it had very little to do with the ride he was about to endure. On the contrary, having a go at the Bungee Rocket was quickly becoming a worthwhile escapade.

000

Even before surviving the traumatic experience of untimely interment—twice, nonetheless—Ichabod had a healthy distaste for being constrained. A distaste that was as epic and monumental as the era from which he was so unceremoniously spewed. However, given his current circumstance, he was thankful for every weighty buckle and tightly woven strap that fixed his body in place and would ensure his safe return to terra firma.

Abbie, on the other hand, was beginning to question her chosen means of exposing Ichabod to something new. The Ferris Wheel, although a bit too pedestrian and outdated for her taste, may have been a better way to introduce Ichabod to the wonders of the modern amusement park. His fingers were twitching more than usual and she could tell that he continually cleared his throat in an attempt to obscure his nerve-riddled breathing. She slid her hand across the faux leather seat and placed it deftly under his, engaging his fingers until their digits were tightly interlaced.

"You ok?"

"I am…fine, Lieutenant. There is no need for you to be inordinately concerned with my mental well-being. Soon enough, this will all be just a memory."

Abbie tightened her grip on Ichabod's hand and a wide grin spread across her face. He knew that her smile was full of purpose and patiently waited for her to vocalize what was on her mind.

When he realized he would only be met with continued reticence, he asked, "What?"

"You really will follow me anywhere, won't you?"

"Well, after venturing into Ro'Kenhronteyes's realm and waltzing into Purgatory at will, this should be regarded as mere child's play."

Abbie reclined her head onto the padded backing of her seat and offered a wispy, "I love…," but caught herself before finishing her statement. With her mind in overdrive, she searched for words that wouldn't send the moment reeling into awkward territory. She was somewhat successful by uttering, "…your sense of humor."

Ichabod made note of the pause that rested in the midst of Abbie's statement, but tried valiantly to avoid reading too much into the slight refrain. After all, she would quite often pepper her speech with tiny lulls. However, it would typically occur when she was saying something more than a few words in length and, 'I love your sense of humor,' was nowhere near being a run-on sentence. Still, it was farfetched to think that the Lieutenant would ever reveal amorous intentions towards him—particularly whilst they were only seconds away from being catapulted into the sky. Although it wouldn't be the first time a stressful situation coaxed one into revealing the veracity of their affections.

For his over analysis, he inwardly chided, _Don't be daft, Crane. You're the one who is anxious, not Abbie_.

"Think of it as part of my mission to interject a bit of levity into our undertaking," he kindly replied.

"Mission accomplished, Crane."

Abbie was thankful that Ichabod either hadn't noticed or was simply gracious enough not to draw attention to the near revelation of what had been budding in her heart as of late. Undoubtedly there was a firmly rooted love that Abbie and Ichabod shared for one another and it had even grown with the passage of time. But it was a love that one would hold for a dear friend or a family member. He was a big brother in almost every way imaginable—physically, emotionally, chronologically. Abbie was increasingly grateful that their intertwining fates did not also include a genetic connection.

The affectionate glance between the two lingered a few beats longer than usual and both instinctively gripped the other's hand a little tighter. Neither regarded the ride attendant when he roared, "Fire in the hole!"

In an instant, the pair was flying through the firmament. It took a moment for Ichabod to catch his breath, but when he did, he emitted a guttural howl that sounded strange even to his own ears. The sensation generated by the device was like none other he had ever experienced. After the first few seconds of horror had subsided, he allowed himself to give in to the release of knowing that the Bungee Rocket would not bring about his personal end of days. There was an inexplicable feeling of liberation gliding through the air. He never dreamt the exhilaration of riding his father's prized Arabian Stallion at top speed across the heath of his family's estate—bereft of the senior Crane's knowledge or approval, of course—could ever be matched, let alone surpassed.

The ride decelerated and was soon to reach its satisfying conclusion when Ichabod was finally able to speak.

"Abbie, that was fantastic!"

There was no response and Ichabod noticed the small hand encircled by his own had gone limp. In fact, he hadn't recalled hearing a peep out of Abbie through the lively venture. He looked over to see she was slumped in her seat and her eyes were sickeningly rolling back into her head.

Ichabod exclaimed, "Dear God!"

Intellectually he knew that only the laws of gravity would bring the ride to a complete halt, affording the opportunity for Abbie to receive assistance. That still did not prevent him from angrily demanding a cessation of the metal object's movement.

"Can no one stop this infernal contrivance? We need help, at once!"

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

"Fire in the hole!"

Abbie hardly paid any attention to the attendant's warning. She was too distracted by the winsome look in Ichabod's eyes as he slowly and deliberately surveyed every feature of her alluring face. There was a time when such scrutiny from him would have made her uncomfortable, but she could no longer deny that things were evolving in their partnership. In the past, the nectarous smiles that Ichabod seemed to reserve only for her would be rewarded with Abbie skillfully averting her eyes and quickly changing whatever subject had induced his reaction in the first place.

She was a master at deflecting but today was different. The whimsy of their afternoon had caused her to lower her guard. And although she begged Ichabod not to request of Irving that they be given the whole afternoon off, she was overjoyed when the captain complied in spite of the short notice. Ichabod's only mistake was leaving it solely up to Abbie on just _how_ they would spend their new-found gift of time.

Today she would not shrink away from his intriguing gaze. Rather, she drank in every moment and only hoped that she was not setting herself up for disappointment. If her deepest desires did end up crashing around her like shattered glass, there would be time to lick her wounds; she was no stranger to doing so. But for now, she would simply relish the moment and resist her tendency towards over analysis.

Abbie felt the unmistakable jolt of being catapulted into the air and immediately sensed a disconnection from her surroundings. She peered over to Ichabod and was alarmed when he appeared to be moving further away from her; almost as if she were being sucked into a tunnel. She could see that he was screaming at the top of his lungs; face red as a beet and the vein in his forehead on the verge of erupting. However, the sound he was producing inexplicably grew fainter. Abbie's vision blurred then all went pitch black.

000

Abbie opened her eyes and struggled to regain focus. The blackness had been replaced by a dull, gray expanse of diffused light. She was so disoriented that, until a small flock of birds intersected her line of sight, she hadn't realized she was lying in the middle of a plush, dew-soaked lawn. The moisture from the ground soon seeped through the denim of her jeans, causing her to quickly leap to her feet.

The young Lieutenant struggled to make sense of where she was, and more importantly, where she had been. She knew that she had been with Ichabod, but that was not uncommon and an easy assumption to be made since they rarely spent time apart as of late. Being in one another's company was scarcely part of a pre-planned outing. Their time together was considerably more organic than that. Their days, filled with tracking down leads, seamlessly melded into evenings grabbing a bite to eat and talking for hours.

The surroundings were foreign to Abbie she wanted nothing more than to find anything recognizable that would give her some grounding. With a pirouette-like move, she surveyed the landscape, but it was all for naught. The woods at her back were definitely not any she'd ever explored in Sleepy Hollow. The buildings in front of her were impressively stunning and much too grand for the unassuming village she'd always called home.

She chuckled at just how much the past several years had altered her perspective. While most people would have long been overtaken by fear and dread, Abbie Mills was simply perturbed by the inconvenience of this latest trek. It helped that she at least hadn't landed in Purgatory. That horrid place had a virulent aura that would never be obliterated from her consciousness and this place was much too pleasant. Right now, she just wanted to get home. Back to Ichabod who could at times aggravate her to no end, yet still remain endearing. Back to Jenny who could be ten times more aggravating than Ichabod on any given day. Even back to Captain Irving who did more than he realized in keeping their motley crew unified.

Walking across the open field toward the only sign of civilization, Abbie studied the architecture of the buildings more closely. One building in particular caught her eye—a circular structure with arched doorways and portals encompassing the ground level. It looked almost as if the rotunda of the U.S. Capitol had been displaced and dropped into the middle of _where ever_ this place was Abbie currently found herself.

Then it hit her: she had seen this particular building before and the recognition caused Abbie to pick up her pace. Ichabod had shown her a photograph of the structure one evening when he was conducting research online. She couldn't remember the exact name of the building, only that it was out of the ordinary (Radcliffe _something_) and that it was a library. She finally ascertained that she was on the campus of Oxford University, or some reasonable facsimile thereof. Abbie was not yet convinced where she found herself was truly 'reality,' per se.

"How in the world did I get here?" she wondered aloud.

Abbie had set her course for the rounded edifice when the motion of someone ducking behind the massive trunk of a nearby English oak caught her eye.

"Hello?" she called out. "Hello? I know you're there."

Abbie cautiously advanced upon the towering stock and purely out of habit slid her hand across her right hip probing for her firearm to no avail. Fortunately, she didn't feel particularly threatened and wouldn't be deterred from finding out who was trying to engage her in a game of hide and seek.

The first thing she saw was a hand with long fingers grasping at the rough bark. Soon to follow was one eye peeking from behind the trunk, examining Abbie from head to toe. When the young boy finally pulled away from the safety of the tree, she could see that he wore an ill-fitting long, black academic robe, almost as if he were playing dress-up. His head was shod with an oversized cap and a ribbon-fastened ponytail extended from its back edge. The jet-black breeches that stopped right at his knee, in conjunction with the other cues of his appearance, let Abbie know that she had undoubtedly been thrust into the past.

The young boy, no more than 10 years old and equal to Abbie in stature, leered at the fetching woman with equal doses of fascination and bewilderment. A small, leather-bound volume that teetered in his grasp eventually fell to the ground, yet this could not rouse him from his reverie.

Abbie smiled sweetly and said, "You dropped your book."

"The dark lady," the preadolescent mused.

With arched brow, Abbie retorted, "Excuse me?"

The flustered youth scrambled to collect his reading material from the thick grass and extended it to Abbie.

"It's a group of sonnets, written by Shakespeare. I was reading some of them when you…appeared," he nervously explained.

"Ah, yes," said a mollified Abbie as she received the book of poetry from his hand.

Abbie loved the discussions she'd often have with Ichabod about literature, but he only briefly touched upon the sonnets. She adored the cadence of his voice when he read poetry, yet he would suddenly become bashful whenever he attempted to venture into that area of the Bard's body of work. On one occasion, she specifically requested that he read sonnet 128 which had always been her favorite. Ichabod had struggled through the verse with an uneven delivery and flushed cheeks. She swore she even heard his voice crack when he read the last line: _Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss_. At the time he explained it away as uneasiness in vocalizing something so carnally intimate in the presence of a lady. As a woman of the 21st century, the salacious nature of the text was completely lost on her, but she supposed it was all relative.

It dawned on Abbie that this not-so-21st-centruy lad was reading something well beyond his years and more than likely surreptitiously.

"So, you like the dark lady sonnets," she playfully ribbed the moppet.

"Oh, yes, they are my favorite," he hastily offered before realizing the implications of his declaration.

The youngster lowered his gaze in embarrassment and anxiously fidgeted with his hands. A flash of crimson washed over his jowls then down his neck and Abbie couldn't help but think of Ichabod and giggle.

"I see," she said mercifully returning the book so his hands could at least be occupied.

Quickly switching subjects, he asked, "May I ask, from whence you came?"

Abbie thought better of being completely forthright with you young man, primarily because she didn't fully understand herself how she came to arrive at Oxford.

"I'm, uh…from far, far way."

"Are you a pirate?" he excitedly asked with the expectation only a child could exhibit. "I have heard stories of females who have resorted to piracy."

Abbie initially wondered where the thought of her being a pirate could have come from, but taking into consideration the clothing she wore, it wasn't that far of stretch. The calf-high, tawny leather boots and matching suede jacket paired with her form-fitting blue jeans could have been mistaken for the garb of a buccaneer. And nearly every time she wore the powder blue peasant blouse that she was presently sporting, Ichabod would tell her how she looked as if she were transported from a bygone era. When he flat out told her, "I like it on you," she found herself wearing it more frequently than she usually would a single item of clothing.

"No, I'm not a pirate," she chortled.

Abbie could see the disappointment in his eyes and decided to give him a glimmer of hope.

"I'm more of what you would call an explorer."

The juvenile's spirits were buoyed and the twinkle in his eye returned.

"An explorer?"

"Yeah. That's kind of like a pirate, right? Even better, if you ask me, since I'm not doing anything illegal."

He concurred by saying, "That is a very good point madam."

"Can I ask you a question?" Abbie asked while sizing up her surroundings. "Is this Oxford University?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"And that building over there?"

Following the trajectory of her finger, he offered, "Radcliffe Camera."

"Camera! That's the strange word."

"Strange, madam?"

"Well, yeah. When you think about a name for a building, you don't think, 'camera.' A camera takes…" she said, abruptly cutting off her statement. How do you explain photographs to kid from centuries past?

"I take it you are not familiar with Latin."

"Not particularly. Just a few legal terms. Why?"

"Camera means "room" in Latin."

"Oh! Not so strange after all," she shrugged.

Before the youngster had a chance to ask too many questions about what a camera meant in her world, Abbie quickly asked, "Do you know if anyone is there now?"

"Most definitely: it's the science library."

"Oh! So there should be a lot of smart people there," she half jested.

"Madame," he started with a self-satisfied tone, "this is Oxford University. There are a lot of smart people _everywhere_ on campus."

"Huh, is that so," Abbie shot back with one of her signature subtle eye rolls. "We'll see how smart they are when I tell them where I'm from."

Abbie commenced walking towards the library and wasn't surprised or disappointed when her newest acquaintance followed suit. She felt his eyes upon her, but it didn't make her uneasy. She could almost hear the innumerable questions buzzing about in his ripening mind. The curiosity of children never bothered Abbie since it usually wasn't coupled with malice. Adult curiosity, on the other hand, was too frequently mingled with ulterior motives and duplicity for her taste.

A rising sense of apprehension took hold of the feisty lieutenant as she attempted to figure out the best way to convey her plight to whomever she encountered in the library. To some degree, there was an inherent feeling of liberation when one knew they were a part of destiny. Still, there was always the risk of being unjustly locked away in an insane asylum, and Abbie wanted to avoid that possibility at all cost.

"So, what are you, one of those child prodigies, or something?"

"What would cause you to draw that conclusion?"

"The way you're dressed. Means you're a student here, right? But you can't be more than 10 years old."

"I will have you know that I will be 11 in less than a fortnight," he corrected. "But no, I am not a student here. Not yet—but someday. However, nothing about my dress would indicate I'm a student at university."

Abbie scoffed and said, "Yeah, right."

She then turned around to see that the cap and gown he had been wearing was replaced by finery befitting an aristocrat. Abbie decided not to draw attention to his wardrobe change because, quite frankly, it wasn't the strangest thing she'd seen during her tenure as a Witness and she just didn't have the energy. Her primary objective was getting back home. Lightly shaking her head in mild disbelief, she looked ahead and noticed that they were no closer to Radcliffe Camera than when they'd first started making their way towards the building.

"Pardon me, madam, but I have been remiss in not asking your name."

"I could say the same. Well, not exactly," she corrected. "I probably would have just said, 'What's your name?'"

The two exchanged a friendly smile before he began, "My name is …"

However, before he could reveal his name, he was interrupted by a disembodied voice that floated gracefully along the wind. The tone was ethereal and distinctly feminine.

"Ichabod," the voice summoned, drawing out each syllable with ghostly effect, though the manner of speech was much too loving to engender fear.

"Ichabod," the pleasant intonation continued.

"That is mother," he excitedly chimed, grabbing Abbie's hand and sprinting towards their destination.

The stunned lieutenant could only respond with, "Ichabod?"

The longer the voice beckoned, however, the more stern it became. Soon it no longer possessed the same dulcet tones and it was successful in stopping Ichabod in his tracks. Abbie could immediately feel the tension in his hand.

"ICHABOD!"

This voice was stern, booming, and unyielding causing Ichabod to become numb with fright. Additionally, this vociferation did not remain bodiless, but before long became corporeal. In an instant, Abbie and Ichabod had advanced within a hundred yards or so of the library as the source of his consternation burst through the door opposite them. He wore the same cap and gown that Ichabod had donned only moments earlier, except the regalia fit him perfectly.

"Madam, we must leave this place," Ichabod strongly commanded.

"But why? Maybe he can help me."

"No, he won't! He will make you go away."

"What do you mean, 'make me go away?' Do you think he'll hurt me?"

"He would not physically harm you. But he would take you away from me."

"ICH-A-BOD!"

The man was now close enough that Abbie could see the rigid expression on his face. His eyes were steely and she immediately understood why Ichabod was so frightened.

"Ichabod, who is that man?"

"He is my father. And we must run."

Ichabod, still clutching Abbie's tiny hand, swung her around until they were facing the opposite direction. Instantaneously, they were no longer outside. They were instead standing in the middle of a wide hallway within a stately manor.

Abbie, attempting to catch her breath said, "Alrighty then. This is _definitely_ not reality."

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Abbie thought she had prepared herself for nearly every eventuality, but coming face-to-face with a prepubescent Ichabod Crane was not one of them. Was this a vision? Was this a dream? Perhaps it was a combination of both. She couldn't even discount the possibility that Ichabod had unraveled the mystery of time travel thrown in with the ability to teleport. For now, she was going to stick to the vision/dream explanation.

The baffled lieutenant soaked in her surroundings. Recalling Ichabod's brief reference to a regal upbringing, he had not been exaggerating if their current setting was any indication. The hallway into which they had been transported was a width of no less than 15 feet, and its full length was covered by opulent Persian rugs. Portraits dotted the walls which were too high for Abbie to view in their entirety without bending her head back at a sharp angle.

As if all these visual cues weren't enough to betray the adult Ichabod's efforts to downplay his family's affluence, she couldn't help but take note of the numerous candles flooding the hallway with a soft, amber glow. Even before meeting Ichabod, she knew that candles were an expensive commodity and only the wealthy possessed the means to illuminate the darkness of their world at will.

"This is your home?" Abbie asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"And you're Ichabod Crane," she stated.

"Yes, I am."

"You're a 10-year-old Ichabod Crane and this is your childhood home," she mused while pointing and waving her hands indiscriminately.

"Almost 11," he corrected, "and as previously confirmed, yes! Besides, what other age would I be?"

"Just talking to myself. Don't mind me."

Ichabod walked briskly down the hallway and looked back at Abbie, beckoning her to follow. She obliged and jogged to catch up to him before he disappeared into the room he was about to enter. He opened the door and allowed her, in gentleman-like fashion, to cross the threshold unimpeded.

To the left was a massive bed of dark, varnished wood flanked with sturdy pillars supporting a canopy. The heavy drapes that hung on all four sides concealed the inner sanctum where Ichabod rested each night. Tucked in the corner was a Baroque-style fireplace that was stately enough to be the centerpiece in the common area of any upscale home.

Ichabod made haste towards the bed and dropped to his knees in a way that only an almost-11-year-old could attempt without causing injury. He pulled a large chest out of hiding from underneath the elevated bedstead and produced a skeleton key that hung on a modest chain around his neck. Unlocking the chest, he pulled out another, much smaller container. He then walked over to the fireplace and ran his fingers along the cool edge of the mantle's underside, extracting a second key. He unlocked the small box and nestled his volume of Shakespearean sonnets safely inside.

Once the smaller box was returned to the security of the larger chest and again hidden under his bed, Ichabod let out a sigh of relief.

"That all looked pretty secretive. Aren't you worried that I know where you hide your … treasures?" Abbie asked.

"Not particularly. I have the only key to the chest around my neck at all times."

"Locks can be picked," she advised.

Ichabod shot her a look of confusion and Abbie determined that 'picked' was probably too modern a term to effectively get her point across.

She quickly clarified, "A person could use some other means of gaining access without a key."

"Such as whom?" he prodded.

"Well, me, for one."

"It is not necessary that I hide anything from you. Only father must not be made aware of those things I have kept carefully hidden."

It struck Abbie as odd that Ichabod was being so unguarded with a complete stranger, but she quickly reminded herself that dreams and visions didn't always follow logic.

"By the way, madam, you have yet to answer my question."

Abbie narrowed her eyes trying to remember what information he desired of her and then it dawned upon her.

"Oh, my name!"

Ichabod slightly bowed his head in confirmation and said, "You have the benefit of knowing my name, but I have yet to learn yours."

"My name is Abbie."

"Miss Abbie," he said with a deep bow and smile. "I am most pleased to make your acquaintance."

She had intentionally withheld her surname hoping he wouldn't call her Miss Mills, yet again. While Abbie had long grown accustomed to Ichabod's mannerly disposition and considered it one of his more endearing qualities, she often wished he would check his formality at the door—especially when addressing her directly.

"You can just call me Abbie," she instructed with a swift, playful curtsey.

"To simply address you by your Christian name would be most improper," he exclaimed.

"Says the young man hiding a grown woman in his chambers," Abbie countered with an arched brow.

Ichabod bashfully lowered his eyes as his hands began a new round of twitching and Abbie covered her mouth to conceal her amusement. Making a more than 200-year-old Ichabod Crane squirm in uncomfortable situations could, at times, be entertaining. Doing the same to a juvenile Ichabod would just be cruel.

Abbie found her desire to get back to reality was being diminished by an even greater desire to learn more about Ichabod at this stage of his life. She realized details may be sketchy given that neither she nor Ichabod were tapping into their conscious minds. However, she found she became more comfortable navigating the subconscious realm each time she delved into a dream or a vision that had a significant bearing on her role as a Witness. She could skillfully wade through the clutter of nonsensical chatter or brush aside the violation of every law of physics to uncover whatever foundational truth would give her and Ichabod exactly what they needed to continue their quest. Ichabod had even started affectionately referring to her as 'Dreamer.'

Abbie ascertained that she was lingering in this world—the domain of Ichabod's young subconscious mind—for a reason. She just needed to have faith that in due time she would return home. She _would_ return to Ichabod. There was a purpose to be served here and she was determined to see it through. She would have preferred possessing knowledge of the exact purpose, but it never worked that way with dreams or visions. The longer she engaged her subject, the clearer the objective would become. And there was not better means of engagement that asking questions.

"What do you like to do for fun?"

"I rarely have time for amusements … or friends, for that matter," he somberly replied. "That is why I ran from him. He would have made you leave."

Her heart was pricked by young Ichabod's confession. Crestfallen, he sat on the side of his bed with his attention fixed on this clasped hands.

"Why is that, Ichabod?" she whispered, hoping her muted tone would prevent her voice from cracking.

"Father says it is critical that I focus on my studies. It is the only way I can hope to be accepted into Oxford in the future."

"Is it really so important that you have to sacrifice having friends?"

He shot her a look that was a mixture of shock and awe. "Of course it is! It is what I was born and bred to become. Like my father and his father before him."

"Why can't you become something else?"

"What else could I become?"

"An adventurer, like me," she playfully intimated hoping to lighten the mood.

With a relaxed smile and a lift in his spirits, he shot back with, "You sound like mother."

He arose from the bed and walked purposefully over to a set of drapes that he forcefully opened, revealing a large pane of glass. Abbie walked over to see what was on the other side, fully expecting to take in a view of an outside garden or a courtyard with a bubbling fountain. Instead, she saw that the glass acted as a one-way mirror, much like those used in interrogation rooms.

Seated on a chaise in the adjoining room was an attractive woman with long, curled brunette tresses and bright blue eyes. Resting at her feet was a small child, no older than five years, listening intently to the story she was sharing. The longer she spun the tale, the more animated she became, much to the delight of her young charge. Although her clothing should have constricted her movement, she nonetheless provided all the action her retelling deserved. She was adorned as any reputable and well-to-do lady of her time would have been, but her body language was that of a heroic swashbuckler.

The woman reached down and effortlessly scooped the child into her arms and caressed him tightly as she twirled in the middle of the room. The pair's delight was infectious and Abbie couldn't help but smile broadly at the scene which played out before her. Without having to be told, she intuitively knew she was peeking into a cherished moment between Ichabod and his mother.

Abbie moved closer to the window and stood at Ichabod's side. She looked over to see the young boy pleasantly surveying his memory.

"Mother would always share the most fantastical tales."

Recalling Ichabod's inquiry of her identity when they first met at the university, she asked, "Like stories about female pirates?"

With a crooked grin, Abbie diverted her gaze from the Ichabod standing next to her to the Ichabod behind the glass, playfully gallivanting with his mother.

Ichabod responded with, "Especially stories about female pirates."

The voice that addressed Abbie gave her a start as it had a much deeper timbre than she expected. She even wondered for a split second if someone else had joined them in the room. She spun her head expecting to look Ichabod directly in the eyes, but was instead met by a broad shoulder. Her eyes scanned upward to find that her partner had grown several inches taller in a matter of seconds. Based on the tone of his voice, his height, and the hint of peach fuzz teasing his upper lip, Abbie estimated that _this_ particular iteration of Ichabod was about 16 years old.

His instantaneous physical transformation was not what struck Abbie the hardest. Studying his countenance, she saw that the congenial expression on his face had been replaced by one of solemnity. The recalled moment that they were witnessing was now causing more pain than pleasure. She could see the tears that pooled in Ichabod's eyes, threatening to overflow down his ruddy cheeks. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard in an attempt to compose himself.

"She was my everything, Miss Abbie. The only true link I had to the outside world; the world beyond these gilded walls, and beyond the hallowed halls of Oxford."

The tinge of bitterness in his voice was undeniable and Abbie had to look away for fear of bawling like a baby if she kept her focus on Ichabod. She was aware of his affluent upbringing, but the revelation of what amounted to a cloistered existence came as a surprise. She never thought of Ichabod in terms of being denied anything, even companionship.

"You say she _was_ your everything?"

"Now she is gone. Now I have no one to tell me tales of faraway lands; of stout-hearted men blazing trails in new worlds; of young maidens plotting to make their way to the Americas by any means necessary."

Too often Abbie would assume Ichabod's childhood had been free of angst, but she was beginning the feel the weight of the elder Crane's expectations on his son and coming to the realization that was not the case. The Cranes had diametrically opposed parenting styles, yet neither exerted their will simply to spite the other. Nonetheless, their mutual stubbornness wouldn't allow either of them to back down. The unintended result was a son who often felt torn between the desires of his parents, and whose confidence in his abilities was on shaky ground. With the passing of Ichabod's mother, the elder Crane's influences quickly became mandates. Ichabod no longer had a buffer that could assuage the intensity of his father's demands.

Turning to face his future partner, Ichabod asked, "Miss Abbie, was I a fool to think I could escape this place and see the world that has been kept hidden from me for so long?"

"Is there a reason you can't leave this place?"

"I will begin my studies soon, and then he will have won. I will be resigned to my fate of expounding on people and places that are no more tangible to me than mere words on a page. I must remain here so the Crane name can carry on in all its glory even if the bearer of the patronymic withers and becomes nothing more than an empty shell."

Abbie was used to such diatribes from Ichabod being delivered with much more vim and vigor. What she saw before her was a young man who was defeated even before he had a chance to begin. Seeing Ichabod during adown periods was nothing new, but this was unsettling. There was no fire in his belly and she couldn't determine if it had been snuffed out or had yet to be lit.

Ichabod dropped his head as the pair behind the glass turned the tables and became the voyeurs. Mother Crane clutched to her young son and stroked his head. The pain in her eyes as she saw the older Ichabod's sorrowful demeanor put a lump in Abbie's throat.

Clutching at his arms and standing toe-to-toe with him, she gave him a little shake and said, "Look at me, Ichabod."

He didn't immediately respond, so Abbie had to repeat her command with more force.

"LOOK at me."

He finally acquiesced and peered directly in her eyes.

"You have so much potential. Don't you EVER think otherwise. Tell me, right now, what you want the most."

"What does it matter? At least becoming a professor would serve some purpose and bring a sense of fulfilment."

"I agree," she remarked with a modicum of sarcasm. "I'm sure it would give your father a _huge_ sense of fulfilment. But what about you, huh?"

Ichabod had no reply for what was by no means a rhetorical question. Abbie was most definitely expecting an answer, something _her_ Ichabod never failed to supply. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

"Your dreams matter. Your father may not have told you this, but I have a feeling your mother did every chance she got. One day he will be gone, Ichabod, and you'll have no choice but to live your life for yourself. Don't let it be a life that was forced upon you."

Abbie released his hand, but only long enough to stroke his back in hopes of providing him some comfort. The gesture seemed to fall short, but there wasn't much else she could do.

Ichabod suddenly broke the silence with, "I want to go to the colonies."

The declaration considerably brightened Abbie's expression. She was once again energized and determined to see a glimmer of the Ichabod she had come to know and love.

"Then you do everything in your power to get there," she exhorted. "Don't see entering Oxford as the end. It's only the beginning. Your education _is_ important, Ichabod. Others are going to need your knowledge. And you have no idea what doors it's going open for you in the future. But as soon as you see an opportunity to sail to America, even if it's as a solider in the King's army, you take it."

"Miss Abbie, I am not like you. I am no adventurer," he mildly scoffed.

"That's where you're wrong. You are going to see places you can't even imagine. You will be brave, you will be strong, and you will be honorable. Your mother would be so proud of your life."

Abbie and Ichabod's mother locked eyes and the lieutenant could see that the young mother's visage exuded gratitude.

"Promise me that you won't forget anything I've told you," she begged.

"Not to worry, madam. I have an eidetic memory."

Feigning surprise, she shot back with, "Really?"

Inexplicably, Ichabod began moving his lips, yet nothing audible proceeded from his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear what you're saying," Abbie told him.

Ichabod only continued to murmur in hushed tones that Abbie was unable to decipher and he appeared to be looking through her. Much in the same manner she had entered this vision-like dream, Abbie felt the undeniable sensation of being ripped from her surroundings. Darkness was engulfing her and every second pulled her further away from Ichabod. She was going home.

0000

Abbie fluttered her eyes open and struggled to gain focus against the assault of bright, fluorescent lighting. She heard the sharp, steady beep of a machine monitoring her vital signs and the undeniable scent that filled her nostrils signaled that she was in a hospital. Suddenly, being stuck in an alternate reality was looking like the lesser of two evils. Her first instinct was to jump out of the bed, gather her things, and leave with or without medical clearance. However, the hushed tones of a mumbling Ichabod foiled her planned escape.

With bowed head and clasped hands flush against his lips, Ichabod offered a barely audible prayer for his dearest friend's safety. Abbie was in no rush to disturb him and couldn't help being deeply touched by his gesticulation. He was endearing himself to her without even trying since he was completely unaware that she had stirred from her extending period of unconsciousness.

A lock of hair that had been secured behind his ear sprang forward, partially covering his face and Abbie instinctively reached out to move it away from his face. Ichabod immediately ceased his supplication and slowly peeked up at Abbie. He heaved a sigh of relief and beamed tenderly at his partner. She responded in kind and moved from sweeping the strands of hair from his eyes to softly stroking his cheek.

"How old are you?"

Ichabod knitted his brow in confusion and said, "What an odd question to ask when coming out of a coma. Particularly when you already know the answer."

"I have my reasons."

"Should I include or exclude the years of suspended animation?" he asked facetiously.

"Either is fine. I just want to make sure I'm not dreaming."

"Ahhh. Has my Dreamer been busy?"

"You have no idea."

"Well, to assure you that you are not dreaming, I am 262 years old … nearly 263."

Abbie rolled her eyes and giggled as she recalled the younger Ichabod making a similar clarification regarding his age.

"Did I say something particularly humorous?"

"I'll fill you in later."

Ichabod took Abbie's tiny hand into his own and planted a feathery kiss on her fingers. He closed his eyes and savored the softness of her skin.

In a deep baritone that seductively rumbled in his chest, Ichabod whispered, "I am just pleased that my Dreamer has returned to me."

"I always will," she purred reassuringly.

_To be continued…_


End file.
